


Slate Sunsets Over Storming Seas

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Little bit of angst, M/M, Sherlock is an idiot, but it's ok because john sorts him out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23426077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock Holmes may have started falling in love with John Watson. He may have also been trying to ward off unwanted emotions by being even more Sherlockian than usual.John Watson has finally caught on to Sherlock's little game. The army doctor, in some instances, is more intelligent than he looks.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 99





	Slate Sunsets Over Storming Seas

It wasn’t as if Sherlock was seeing John for the first time; after all, they did share a flat. Instead, it was more as if Sherlock was seeing John in a new light. A light that painted John the most beautiful arrangement of colors, that brought out the crashing ocean waves of his eyes, an almost romantic light… 

This notion scared the living shit out of him. 

Sherlock was not prone to suffer from the emotions known as fear and attraction. At least not attraction in regards to humans. He was plenty attracted to his work, as well as his research on 243 different types of tobacco ash. (And he didn’t enjoy fear much, either.)

But this was new, this was frightening. John’s voice, John’s mouth, John’s eyes were constantly a distraction. The unfamiliarity of it all sent Sherlock’s head reeling. He loathed his helplessness, the way his throat constricted when John brushed a little too close, leaving him gasping for breath in the most discreet manner possible. 

Sherlock had filed away in his mind every fleeting snapshot of John’s eyes he could catch. Startling electric blue and subdued, stormy slate clashed, wrestling amid hundreds of other hues, eyes that were strikingly unique and undeniably John Watson.

There may have been a few or a dozen or so moments when John noticed Sherlock’s unnerving stare. Cataloging information was never a particularly “zoned in” event when it came to the world’s only consulting detective. Sherlock, in endless apathy, had simply continued marvelling at John. 

So perhaps the detective was indeed a romantic. Anyone who suggested it would surely end up reduced to tears by Sherlock’s eternal deductions of who they’d been shagging the previous night.

And perhaps Sherlock Holmes was slowly, excruciatingly falling in love. Unfortunately, neither he, nor the recipient of said love, had realised it yet.

It was already hard enough to keep his spine from stiffening every time John walked in the room. Which, of course, he had to do right about then.

“Sherlock!” The shout rang through the flat, accompanied by heavy breathing and the unmistakable scent of rain.

“In the kitchen, John.”

There was a silence, then the sound trudging through the doorway, and John Watson appeared in the entrance to the room, carting two bags and a head full of dripping wet hair. Sherlock, surprisingly, looked up. 

“You look like a drowned cat.” Regardless of any newfound attraction to his flatmate, Sherlock was on no accounts going to quit being difficult.

“Yes well, I got the groceries, like you told me to.” He hoisted the bags onto the kitchen table. “You might have warned me that there was a wreck further up on Baker Street, resulting in me walking two blocks in a hailstorm because the cabbie couldn’t take me, considering you haven’t moved from your experiment since I left. The same bloody forceps in your hand…”

Choosing not to point out the forceps were clearly a different pair and Sherlock had a new eyeball of a different colour placed in front of him, he simply said, “My experiment takes time. And if I’m not mistaken,” (which I never am) he added in his head, “you have access to every current news article on your mobile phone.”

John’s eyes flashed briefly, with a hint of what was likely anger. Sherlock made a mental note to file that color later, (aquamarine with flecks of dark teal) before resuming his experiment.

“You know,” John said, “I don’t know why I even try. Every day, you tell me to get the groceries, or take your phone out of the bloody coat you’re wearing. Despite the fact that Baker Street is closed off for five bloody blocks, including our own flat, and it is currently hailing, and yet you failed to send one text to let me know, while the first thing you say as I walk in the door is an insult. I know you observed it, Mr. Sherlock ‘You See but You Do Not Observe’ Holmes. I’m drenched, and you’re right, I do look like a drowned cat. You’re welcome for the groceries by the way, and I won’t put them away as long as your awful frozen fingertips in a bag are thrown out. I know you don’t really care about anyone, you sociopath. But while we’re sharing a flat, at least act like you do.” 

John took a breath before saying, “I’m going to go have a shower. You’re perfectly welcome to put the groceries away yourself, but I know you won’t.” Muttering to himself, he stomped off in the direction of the bathroom. Sherlock vaguely picked up the phrases, “Why do I try? He’s such a bloody git.”

It stung. It really stung. What hurt more was the fact that John was right.

Why did it hurt? It never truly hurt before. The more familiar Sherlock became with emotions, the less he favored them. It was like Mycroft had always told him: Sentiment was a hindrance. For the first time in his life, Sherlock wanted to apologize to another person.

And he despised it. Oh, how he execrated it! Sherlock longed to be rid of his foolish human emotions. For years, he had prided himself on his unattachment, his sociopathy. And then John Watson had strode his way into Sherlock’s life and made a right mess of things.

He was also unsure as to why John had said this now. Was it because of last week, when Sherlock shot a cushion to see how the fabric would absorb the bullet, effectively ruining the sofa for the foreseeable future? Had this outburst been building up for a while? Sherlock really didn’t like not knowing the answer to something, either.

The whole situation left Sherlock confused. That was not something the consulting detective was accustomed to. 

Sherlock’s mind kept travelling back to something John shouted… did he believe Sherlock didn’t care about him? The detective’s breathing faltered as he realised what John had said.

His thoughts were interrupted by a splash of water as the shower was turned on. It seemed as though Sherlock had royally fucked up. So he did the most unusual thing: Sherlock Holmes put away the groceries.

He did not enjoy it in the slightest. But he was determined to make things right with his only friend in the world, dammit.

The things love makes a person do. Not that Sherlock was in love with John. Obviously.

John would disagree on this point, Sherlock knew, saying that for an adult man, he must know how to properly perform basic household duties. This would surely not be seen as a favor by anyone else. But at the same time, Sherlock hoped it would contradict John’s previous statement: that he didn’t care.

And as he was in the middle of a frantic search for where the butter went, John walked into the kitchen, fully clothed after his shower.

He stared, dumbfounded, as Sherlock paused and turned to face him. “You… put them away?” Laughing a dry laugh, he said, “Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”

“It’s still me, John, as evidenced by my face, voice, figure, and the fact that I can tell your brand of shampoo from-”

“Sherlock. Shut up.”

Sherlock shut up. But only for five seconds. “John, actually, I wanted to say I’m… erm, that is, I should apo- er, say, erm…” He gave up, defeated. “Please excuse my lack of articulation. I am not used to confessing I was wrong in any form of the word.”

“You are insufferable. A right genius with an ego the size of Mars.” John shook his head wryly. “Have you never said, “I’m sorry” and meant it?”

Opening his mouth to answer, Sherlock looked guiltily away.

“No, don’t answer that. I know the answer anyways. I’ve spent enough time over the years being furious at you, I know you don’t change.” Taking a few steps closer, John continued, “Thank you, for the effort. I know it’s about the best you ever do, being you and all. It was a stupid thing to get upset about, anyway…”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. John’s eyes were so tantalising, like the fresh sky after a thunderstorm, glinting with uncertain gratitude. His extensive knowledge of the English language dried up and was buried under waves of colour, pouring out from John’s features. “John,” he said hoarsely, “I’m… sorry. There. I mean it.”

“I believe it.”

John took another slight step forward. Sherlock could feel his heart racing. Damn his emotions!

“I also believe I can deduce you, Sherlock, because your behaviour the past few weeks has been very out of the ordinary. And your pulse is heightened. Among other factors.” 

Smirking, John said, “I think you, Sherlock Holmes, have a crush.”

It was then Sherlock thought he’d been found out. But, sadly, John saw but did not observe.

“I think I shall set you up with whoever it is.” John looked pleased with himself, not comprehending the agony that threatened to rip Sherlock apart. How could he not have noticed Sherlock liked him? 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m Sherlock Holmes. I am married to my work.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“I do not have a crush.” Sherlock spat the word with venom.

“Yes you do.”

“I do not.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stop pestering me, John.”

John’s head appeared over Sherlock’s shoulder, causing every bone in the detective body to stand perfectly still. His jaw tensed, eyes flickering desperately in an attempt to look anywhere other than John’s wonderful eyes.

The effort didn’t help.

“I further deduce,” John whispered, “that crush is your flatmate. Based on your posture, your heart rate, your obvious nerves at my being so close, and the fact that you study me every time I walk in the room, I gather you’ve liked me for some time. And you’ve been hiding this by trying to make you seem even more like yourself than usual. Which you look like a right git, by the way, I don’t recommend it.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed. John was, again, right. About some things, John really was perceptive. “John, if you want to find another flatshare, I understand, I’ll talk to Mrs. Hudson first thing tomorrow about moving-”

“Sherlock, for someone with your massive intellect, you can be such an idiot sometimes.” Without another word, John spun Sherlock around and looked him deep in the eyes. The detective memorised seven new colours in John’s irises before John was pulling him in, and his eyes were fluttering shut, and every photograph in his mental files combined could never compare to that feeling of John’s lips on his.

In all his eloquence, Sherlock Holmes could not find a single word to say as John pulled away. So, in lieu of a response, he simply grabbed his flatmate by the front of his jumper, smiled in his half-strange, Sherlock way, and kissed him again.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Johnlock fic, so it's probably shit. I know it's trash. Don't come after me in the comments please.
> 
> I'm not British, but I felt confident enough in my British verbiage from watching the BBC and DnP so much. If I butchered it, I'm sorry. I just wanted to make it seem like they were not American like me.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, feedback is always appreciated!!


End file.
